Year of the Tiger
In 1959, British agents masterminded the escape of the Dalai Lama from Tibet. Three years later, Paul Chavasse is doing it all over again…A vitally important scientist, holding intelligence that could shift the balance of world power, is being held in China.British secret agent Paul Chavasse, responsible for extracting the Dalai Lama from under Chinese noses, is the perfect man to slip through the border, locate the scientist and bring him back to the West.But Chavasse’s nerve, stamina and loyalties will all be tested as he finds the Chinese are reluctant to let their asset go without a fight…
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Table of Contents
YEAR OF THE TIGER was first published by Abelard Shulman in 1963 under the name of Martin Fallon. The book went out of print very shortly after first publication, was never reprinted and never appeared in paperback.
The author was in fact Jack Higgins, Martin Fallon being one of the pseudonyms he used during his early writing days.
This edition of YEAR OF THE TIGER was revised and updated by Jack Higgins in 1994, and we are delighted to be re-publishing it in 2013 to a brand new audience of thriller fans.
In March 1959, after the failure of the revolt by the Tibetan people against their Chinese masters, the Dalai Lama escaped to India with the help of the CIA and British Intelligence sources. A remarkable affair indeed. But three years later the British masterminded an even more remarkable coup. It went something like this …
They were closer now, he could hear the savage barking of the dogs, the voices of his pursuers calling to each other, firing at random as he ran headlong through the trees. There was a chance, not much of a one, if he could reach the river and cross to the other side. Another country and home free. He slipped and fell, rolling over and over as the ground sloped. As he got to his feet there was an enormous clap of thunder, the skies opened and rain fell in a great curtain, blanketing everything. No scent for the dogs now and he started to run again, laughing wildly, aware of the sound of the river, very close now, knowing that he’d won again this damned game he’d been playing for so long. He burst out of the trees and found himself on a bluff, the river swollen and angry below him, mist shrouding the other side. It was at that moment that another volley of rifle shots rang out. A solid hammerlike blow on his left shoulder punched him forward over the edge of the bluff into the swirling waters. He seemed to go down for ever, then started to kick desperately, trying for the surface, a surface that wasn’t there. He was choking now, at the final end of things and still fighting and, suddenly, he broke through and took a great lungful of air.
Paul Chavasse came awake with a start. The room was in darkness. He was sprawled in one of the two great armchairs which stood on either side of the fireplace and the fire was low, the only light in the room on a dark November evening. The file from the Bureau which he’d been reading was on the floor at his feet. He must have dozed, and then the dream. Strange, he hadn’t had that one in years, but it was real enough and his hand instinctively touched his left shoulder where the old scar was still plain to see. A long time ago.
The clock on the mantelshelf chimed six times and he got to his feet and reached to turn on the lamp on the table beside him. He hesitated, remembering, and moved to the windows where the curtains were still open. He peered out into St Martin’s Square.
It was as quiet as usual, the gardens and trees in the centre touched by fog. There was a light on at the windows of the church opposite, the usual number of parked cars. Then there was a movement in the shadows by the garden railings opposite the house and the woman was there again. Old-fashioned trilby hat, what looked like a Burberry trenchcoat and a skirt beneath, reaching to the ankles. She stood there in the light of a lamp, looking across at the house, then slipped back into the shadows, an elusive figure.
Chavasse drew the curtains, switched on the other lights and picked up the phone. He called through to the basement flat where Earl Jackson, his official driver from the Ministry of Defence, lived with his wife, Lucy, who acted as cook and housekeeper.
Jackson’s voice had a hard cockney edge to it. ‘What can I do for you, Sir Paul?’
Chavasse winced. He still couldn’t get used to the title, which was hardly surprising for he had only been knighted by the Queen a week previously.
‘Listen, Earl, there’s a strange woman lurking around in the shadows opposite. Wears an old trilby hat, Burberry, skirt down to the ankles. Could be a bag lady, but it’s the third night running that I’ve seen her. Somehow I get a funny feeling.’
‘That’s why you’re still here,’ Jackson said. ‘I’ll check her out.’
‘Take it easy,’ Chavasse told him. ‘Send Lucy to the corner shop and she can have a look on the way. Less obvious.’
‘Leave it with me,’ Jackson said. ‘Are we going out?’
‘Well, I need to eat. Let’s make it the Garrick. I’ll be ready at seven.’
He shaved first, an old habit, showered afterwards then towelled himself vigorously. He paused to touch the scar of the bullet wound on the left shoulder, then ran his finger across a similar scar on his chest on the right side with the six-inch line below it where a very dangerous young woman had tried to gut him with a knife more years ago than he cared to remember.
